


heart and soul to the smiter

by TechnicalTragedy



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Blow Jobs, Doubt, Drug Use, Facials, Guilt, Guns, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Instability, Roughness, Scars, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Violence, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:39:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6288529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicalTragedy/pseuds/TechnicalTragedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only constant, perhaps, was Deacon.</p><p>Do you love him? If so, do you love him enough? If so, do you love him enough to let him go? If so, can you – will you – wait, wait, wait, wait, wait-</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart and soul to the smiter

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i've been writing this fic for like a month (rip me) but i finally found a place where i feel satisfied at the ending and it's a decent enough length for me. i worked hard on it and i'm pretty proud of the way it turned out, even if it did take WAYYYYYY longer than expected.
> 
> title is from Great Expectations by Charles Dickens (Miss Havisham says the line)
> 
> enjoy!

The Commonwealth breathes, dragging in fresh air through its ashen lungs, pulsing with the syncopated beating of thousands of hearts. They don't fit, not here and not ever; they're all jagged and ruined by the very universe, pulling themselves back together after total devastation.

(“ _I don't always agree with you, but there's no one I would rather have at my back._ ”)

The knife strikes deep.

(“ _I don't love you._ ”)

His teeth bare in a snarl and he's-

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Cold. That’s the first thing that registers. Biting cold, everywhere, nowhere, suffocating him. The release on the pod opens, groaning and screeching as metal grinds on metal, spilling Nate out onto the Vault floor.

He struggles to his feet, limbs feeling leaden and uncooperative. Nate puts his hands out to stop himself from careening face first into his wife’s “decontamination pod.” He sees her, frozen and slumped over and it makes him _hurt_.

Nate slaps the red button on the panel next to the pod, but nothing happens. He tries again with the same result, then again and again until he can’t fathom it would finally decide to start working. He lays his hand on the glass, the fingers that had just started getting blood circulated back through them growing cold again.

She’s so close, a foot or two away, but she’s unreachable, locked away in her frosty coffin. Nate closes his eyes, sends up a brief prayer to the God he’s not even sure he thinks is listening anymore. It doesn’t provide him with any comfort, but he hopes it finds Nora somewhere and lets her know that he’s still alive and still loves her more than anything.

Nate straightens, backing away from the pod and turning to face the exit. It’s a long hallway and a sealed door, and Nate traverses the Vault like he’s been here, like his feet know the way. His fingers twinge with pain as he wraps them around the first security baton he finds, but at least it’s something other than grief clouding his head and heart.

The elevator moves as soon as he’s on it, screaming its ascent. He leaves Nate underground, back in the cold Vault, and can almost feel his heart getting colder, too.

Washington looks across the horizon, the charred and cracked landscape of his home, and something clicks into place deep inside him.

 

\- - -

 

Teeth gnashing, biting, ripping flesh from bone and sinking deep into a vulnerable throat. It’s animalistic, barbaric, to see a man you trust with his mouth reddened by your own blood.

The earth shifts, tilts, shatters to pieces as he looks back, grinning with his whole face. His lips are spread too far, cracking at the corners but he goes on smiling and smiling and he reaches for-

 

\- - -

 

The baseball bat is a familiar weight. Washington remembers playing the game Pre-War, the thunk of bat and ball connecting, the thrill of the chase and of the run.

Washington runs a hand over the smooth wood, thinking already of aluminum, of chains and blades he could use to make his weapon a true killer. He remembers seeing this bat in action, was the thing.

2076 World Series, he knows. If it were a different set of circumstances, maybe Washington would leave it, or even sell it. As it is, he jams it into his pack and starts for the door. At least Jamaica Plains was useful for something other than getting him irradiated to hell and back. Maybe he’d introduce some of those ghouls left outside to his new friend.

He knocks a feral’s head clean off, sends it flying and rolling over the broken asphalt.

Washington smiles, that same something he’d felt after the Vault shifting in its place within him.

He likes the Wasteland, he really, really does.

 

\- - -

 

Relief, pure and clean. Flying above the planet, over the nuclear waste, eyes rolled back in his head as exquisite pain radiates through his body.

Back now, the parchment sky with its story being overwritten, crossed out, ripped to shreds while you watch your best nightmare.

Pop!

The whistle of wind, the arc high overhead, the descent and the crash and-

 

\- - -

 

Washington is a variable no one accounts for. He doesn’t walk the Freedom Trail so much as cut a new red path to their front door, even easier to follow than the last. He smashes in the soft skulls of the ghouls that inhabit the Old North Church, breaks into their top secret base, and whips out a fucking missile launcher when they point guns at him.

“So this is the Railroad,” Washington says, faking casual with the missile launcher settled on his shoulder. “Little bit on the dingy side, if you don’t mind me saying. Not that I care if you mind.”

“Who the hell are you?” the redhead in the middle asks. Ah, the leader, then.

Washington shrugs, “Right now, I’m just a guy in a tunnel holding a missile launcher. Hey, do you think the ceiling would cave in if I shot this baby off? Haven’t had a chance to use her indoors yet.”

The woman frowns, opens her mouth to reply, but a sudden voice from Washington’s left cuts her off before she can start.

“Aw, man. I didn’t know we were having a party! I would’ve brought cake if- Whoa,” the guy stops, eyebrows appearing over his sunglasses. “That’s a big gun. Kinda sexy, not gonna lie. Haven't seen one of those in a while.”

Washington grins, sharp and feral. “Would you like to get a closer look? I'm sure she'd _love_ to make your acquaintance.”

The man makes a considering noise. “Maybe later. Right now, I'm on the job.” He smiles easily, too easily, and though Washington doesn't trust any of them, he trusts this one the least.

Washington turns his attention back to the redheaded leader when she speaks, “Deacon, what kind of intel do you have on this guy?”

Deacon looks over Washington, considering, and when he finally reaches Washington's eyes the man winks at him, adjusting his grip on the missile launcher a little and shifting his stance to pop his hip a little more. Deacon has never seen more obvious – or more awful – flirting in his life. “Not too much, Dez,” he replies, at length, even though he's been watching the Vaultie since he took his first baby steps out into the world. “Left a trail of destruction in his wake, but he seems like he could be sympathetic to our cause.”

“The whole synth thing?” Washington interjects. “If you guys'll let me kill stuff, I'll do whatever you need me to.”

Deacon shrugs when 'Dez' makes a face at him. “I did say he left a trail of destruction, right? The trail is pretty damn long.”

“Oh, you flatterer,” Washington says.

Washington isn't sure, but he thinks Deacon winks behind his sunglasses.

 

\- - -

 

The earth quakes under their feet, bullets falling like snow around them. He misses his vein, misses his heart, misses his home. The world explodes into bright color: blue and red and yellow like he'd learned in his first art class.

They aren't so different when the page turns, when some new dream is barreling over you and sweeping you up into the fervor.

(“ _Good men don't get the suits. You'll be impenetrable inside and out._ ”)

Nothing can touch him where he's going but the click-boom in his ears is deafening, the rush is exhilarating.

He breathes out fire and breathes in poison and, Jesus, he thinks he sees the light but his eyes are-

 

\- - -

 

The first thing Washington learns about Deacon is that the violence is what gets him, is that Washington _gets him_. It's when the blood is spilled, when you're covered in someone else's gore and still pounding with adrenaline.

Deacon stares for too long at the blood Washington is licking from his fingers, turns away too stiffly for Washington to not take notice.

_Huh. So that's what it is._

Washington likes knowing what gets that tick, tick, tick going. Knowledge is power, after all, and he loves to be the smartest in the room.

Triumphant, Washington cleans off the bat he's taken to calling _Shaun_ , because even people like him aren't completely immune to sentimentality (thinking of Nora, of the missiles in his pack named for things he loves about her and the weapon named after the One, the Only).

“That's nasty, boss,” Deacon complains, watching as Washington flicks pieces of gray matter off his favorite weapon. “Why can't we do something more impersonal, like blowing their brains out with sniper rifles?”

Washington strokes his fingers down the aluminum, making trails in the fresh blood. “What, got intimacy issues, Deek? Maybe it's the personal aspect I like, hm?”

“Oh, even the best of us are prone to performance anxiety,” Deacon says, and Washington feels his gaze like a brand on him.

Washington smiles, deceptively soft, looking at Deacon from under his eyelashes, “It's the rush of blood, Deek. The feeling of power, of _control_.” He takes a step toward Deacon, is even surprised when the agent doesn't back up. “The heat of someone else's life on my hands, my weapon, my face and body. Don't you feel it? I've seen you watch me, you know.”

Deacon's face closes up faster than Slocum's Joe had on Saturday nights back Pre-War. “I watch everything,” Deacon says, harsh. “Doesn't mean I'm some sick fuck who gets off on death like you.”

“That hurts,” Washington says, putting a hand to his chest. “Really, it does. Come on, you think I don't _know_ how fucked up it is? It's easier to enjoy it than hate it, is all I'll say.”

Deacon shakes his head, finally looking away from Washington, who is much, much closer than he'd noticed before. “Maybe for you, boss.”

Washington rolls his eyes and hefts his bat up onto his shoulder, careful to avoid the saw blade chained to the end. “Come on, Deek. People to kill, things to kill.”

“They really let people like you into the army, back then?” Deacon asks, face and voice neutral, like he's not trying to find Washington's tick.

The man out of time winks, spinning around to face the long road. “War effort was desperate, Deek. Were practically begging for anybody who knew how to handle a gun to enlist. Lucky for them, they got me. Even gave me a suit of Power Armor and everything, if you can believe it.” He takes a few steps, then stops and considers. “In fact, I still can't believe it.”

Washington starts walking, carefree and whistling a jaunty tune.

As always, Deacon follows.

 

\- - -

 

Shake and break apart, a kaleidoscope of all your sins spinning and crashing in and in and in like the tide ever-present. Hands are shaking, a cold sweat's broken out on your forehead but God, God, God, please let me make it home alive, please don't give me back to my wife in a casket.

Please, I'm not a religious man but if you can hear me, home is all I want, all I need. Let me go home.

(“ _For men like you, the war isn't over when you're back on your own soil. The war never ends. War never changes._ ”)

The time bomb starts to tick, tick, tick-

 

\- - -

 

Washington is littered with scars, more than Deacon has ever seen on someone. They crisscross his back, deep but, for the most part, uniformly so. He has scars on his face, gouges that almost look like they came from claws. He comes up with a new story every time Deacon asks about those, but he never even answers when Deacon brings up the cut across his throat.

Deacon has scars, too, some visible and some not so. He supposes he can't judge Washington for not sharing his stories. Deacon has enough of his own he doesn't speak of.

“Deek, eyes up,” Washington says suddenly, and Deacon is immediately on alert.

He spots the Deathclaw right off, of course he does. Deacon has eyes like a hawk, Washington's told him. Deacon doesn't know what the hell a hawk is, but he assumes they had great eyesight.

“What're you planning, boss?” Deacon asks cautiously, and when all he gets is a grin in return Deacon knows it's going to be bad.

Washington pulls out his newest favorite weapon, his huge sledgehammer he's taken to calling Biggie. “I bet me and Biggie can do some damage, whaddya say, Deek?” Washington asks, almost sounding genuine, though he never asks questions he doesn't already know the answer to, so Deacon isn't quite sure why he'd even ask.

“I think that, no matter what I say, you're going to fight that Deathclaw,” Deacon says mildly, used to Washington's ways by now.

Washington hefts his sledge up with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “There's a good boy, able to anticipate me. Not many people can do that – Well, not many _living_ people,” he amends, something nearly remorseful flitting across his face.

It's a glimpse past the violence and anger, a look at something that may be the real Washington. Doesn't mean Deacon appreciates the condescension. “I'm not your dog, boss.”

“I don't need another dog,” Washington says, walking again, eyes only for the Deathclaw. “The one I have is enough of a handful. You, well,” Washington pauses, finally looking at Deacon with a strange expression on his face. “You're my moral compass, I guess. The angel on my shoulder.”

Deacon blinks behind his sunglasses, surprised that Washington would say something so, well, approaching nice. “Not much of a conscience, then. You sure you want somebody like _me_ to be a moral compass?”

Washington's smile is soft, almost sweet. “I don't always agree with you, but there's no one I would rather have at my back.”

Deacon stares at him, lips parted like he wants to say something but isn't saying it. Washington nods after the silence stretches out almost too long, then grins wide and turns back toward the Deathclaw.

“No time like the present, then,” he says, and charges forward with Biggie held at the ready.

Deacon crouches instantly into a sniper's stance and pulls his rifle up to look through the scope. Maybe it's stupid of him, but he really does have Washington's back, no matter what.

The first shot rings out and Washington laughs over the Deathclaw's roar.

 

\- - -

 

The abyss yawns ahead, stares back while he reaches forward. He falls, forever on into the black hole, sweeping him up beyond the event horizon. He hears it then: the silence, oppressive and consuming.

Nothing can bother him, here. There is no countdown, no constant ticking of the clock; there is only him, only the unsurprising realization of impending death. He's finally impenetrable, finally secure in his own suit of armor. Finally, _finally_ , he is his own.

The world blooms in his palms, he opens his eyes and he can _see_ for the first time in forever. He sees-

 

\- - -

 

It's been forever, it feels like, since he's had to chance to do this. He's been so tightly wound ever since he got out of the Vault, but now there's a lull in the usually hectic lifestyle Washington leads, and he's taking full advantage of his unexpectedly free schedule.

Washington is unhurried, unworried, with all the time in the world. He works himself over slowly, just the way he likes, not bothering to stifle his soft, appreciative noises. He's at the Red Rocket, and his, hm, _colleagues_ know where to find him should they need him. God, he hopes they won't need him anytime soon.

He twists his wrist on the upstroke and sighs, his toes curling as his eyelids flutter shut. This is the calmest he's felt since he took his first steps out into this Brave New World. He wonders what Deacon would think if he found out Washington was only ever calm when he was jerking off. The brief thought of the man brings more, of his voice growling in Washington's ear, or maybe whining below him.

Washington groans when Deacon's hands come to mind. Those long fingers wrapped around his sniper rifle, the one Washington improves for him without even thinking about it. Deacon's index finger on the trigger, the way he goes still and silent when he's looking down the scope, the satisfying noise of a shot being fired. Deacon always smells a little like gunpowder, a testament to his preferred weapon, but there's something underlying it, too, something earthy and woody and _Deacon_.

“Shit, Deek,” Washington whispers, biting his bottom lip once the words slip out like he wishes he could swallow them back up. He speeds the movement of his hand nevertheless, more images of Deacon flashing through his head.

Deacon with blood running from his nose after being bashed by some raider shithead, asking, “ _Am I still pretty, boss?_ ” Washington had told him he's never been more irresistible, had almost been tempted to fuck Deacon among the still-cooling corpses.

Washington with Deacon up against the wall, bloody hand slapped over Deacon's mouth, their bodies pressed close like they're trying to become one person. “ _We're going to fuck Bobbi over,_ ” Washington breathes into Deacon's ear, and feel the minute nod against him. Washington still remembers the feeling of Deacon's lean frame tight against his own, still remembers wondering if he'd ever see Deacon out of his disguises, if he'd ever put hands on him in circumstances which, even by Washington's standards, were much more fun.

Deacon's hand in the center of Washington's chest, burning a brand into him. Deacon's gaze on him, cutting through his sunglasses. Deacon releasing breath and bullet as one. Deacon's face when he sleeps, the lines ironed out in his light slumber. Deacon's muscles shifting under his skin, drawing Washington's eyes.

Washington continues fucking his fist frantically, riding the manic wave carrying him closer and closer to that delectable edge. He screws his eyes shut as a wave of heat sweeps through him, back arching as he comes with Deacon's body on his mind and Deacon's name on his lips.

He comes back to himself eventually, feeling pleasantly boneless and tasting blood from where he'd sunk his teeth into his lower lip a bit too hard. Washington's eyes slide open to stare up at the ceiling of the Red Rocket, and he thinks about what he's just done, examining it in his mind's eye and turning it over and over to see every angle.

The conclusion: Washington might be a little bit fucked, and if he's unlucky it won't even be in the good way.

 

\- - -

 

The sun drips onto the earth, bleeding light out across the cracked ground. He bathes in it, exalts in the feeling of heaven on his skin, warming him from the inside out and flooding his lungs with liquid gold.

They are, all of them, different waves on the same spectrum; they all originate from the same point, but as they go on they grow farther and farther apart.

(“ _Washington, we’ve gotta pick up the pace, they’re right behind us. Washington. Washington?_ ”)

The air he inhales might as well be ice. The sun goes dark like its switch has been flipped. He always preferred the cold, anyway.

We return from our pilgrimage, from our last Great Journey, but the world is changed, the world-

 

\- - -

 

Washington is a live wire, roiling with energy he needs to release somehow. His hands are shaking, but he ran out of Jet last week and he’s too jittery to even think about pumping himself full of Psycho.

Deacon has been gone for almost two days, had said “Boss, please wait here. Promise I’ll be back soon, but you’ve gotta promise me you’ll be here when I do come back.”

Washington had promised, like the goddamn, sentimental, dumbass idiot he was. He needs something to do, something outside of the Hotel Rexford but still inside Goodneighbor.

He goes to the Third Rail, finally, leaving his armor in his locked room but keeping a switchblade in his pocket. Whitechapel Charlie welcomes him easily enough, plying him with beer probably in the hopes of getting him loose-lipped enough to have something to tell Hancock. Washington is, as always, uncooperative.

Washington watches Magnolia, and if he squints, turns his head this way, he could almost, kind of mistake her for Nora. The thought of her no longer causes that harsh pain in his chest, but Washington still misses her, will always miss what they’d had. Deacon is a good distraction from it, but now that they’re separated for the longest time since they’d started traveling together, Washington feels the chasm in his chest like it’s a palpable entity.

Maybe he’s given Deacon too much power, if just two days away from the man makes Washington feel like the world is ending all over again. Maybe the Railroad agent’s ditched him here in Goodneighbor, gone off and gotten himself killed or worse. A memory rises unbidden in Washington’s mind of things worse than death, and he quickly knocks back the rest of his whiskey, immediately ordering another from the robotic bartender.

Washington’s fingers drum on the bar top, mind a mess as he tries to think of anything but Deacon and _that_ -

A hand, warm and dry but unsteady, settles over his, stopping his restless movements. Washington blinks uncomprehendingly at their two hands for a moment, before following the arm up to its owner.

Deacon, cuts across his face and holding himself awkwardly, but alive and _here_. His sunglasses are spiderwebbed with cracks, his smile is a little forced. Washington feels such a powerful wave of relief he can’t stop himself from getting up, wrapping his arms around Deacon, and breathing in his familiar scent like it’s the air he needs to keep living.

Deacon’s arms come around Washington in return, a little unsure, a little weak. It’s okay. Washington can be the strong one.

Eventually, and Washington isn’t quite sure how, they wind up back in their room at the Rexford. Washington peels Deacon’s shirt off, searching for his wounds sluggishly, fingers tripping over Deacon’s bare skin laid out in front of him.

“Boss, ah, not that I’m not totally digging this weird, uh, _thing_ , but. What are you doing, exactly?” Deacon says.

Washington puts his head on Deacon’s chest, listens to the beating of his partner’s heart. “Th’t you were dead,” Washington mumbles, trying to match his breathing to Deacon’s.

“Dead? Me? Come on boss, you know I’ve survived things even roaches can’t.” Deacon knits his fingers through Washington’s hair, a luxury Washington usually doesn’t allow.

Washington pushes up into Deacon’s hand, pleased at the willing, gentle contact. The more sober part of his mind is railing at him, demanding he stop acting like a fucking housecat and get some answers, but the drunker, bigger part of his mind is so, so happy at this kind of easy affection he hasn’t had in so long.

“Was thinkin’ about what I’d do if you died,” Washington finds himself saying. “Don’t tell Dogmeat, but you’re my best friend, Deeky.”

Deacon laughs, and Washington hears it from the inside out. “You’re a whole lot nicer when you’re drunk,” he says, tightening his grip on Washington’s hair to the point of painful.

“Hm,” Washington agrees. “I’m g'nna sleep here, ‘kay? If I wake up angry, tell me I said to shit the fuck off.”

Deacon laughs again, quieter, his fingers uncurling and petting through Washington’s thick locks instead of pulling them. “I’ll make sure to do that, Washington.”

Washington hardly has time to think of how good his name sounds in Deacon’s voice before he’s drifting off into a blissful sleep.

Morning light slices through the curtains, right into Washington’s eyes. He groans as he wakes up, rolling away from the sun and rubbing at his eyes groggily. Fuck, his head hurts.

He casts his eyes around the room, finding it empty except for himself. The little bottle of Pre-War aspirin Deacon had found a while back is on the bedside table next to some purified water, a gesture that has Deacon written all over it.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Washington downs a couple aspirin with the water, glad they’d tested that it at least somewhat worked before he went and swallowed the pills.

Once Washington is feeling a little less like death warmed over, he picks up the scrap of paper folded next to the bottle on the table. He unfolds it, only getting to the end of the first line before his heart stops.

 

_“ ~~Boss.~~_  
_Washington._  
_I want to start by admitting that I’ve been lying for a long time. You could say I’ve been lying the entire time you’ve known me._  
_I saw you come out of the Vault. I know who you are, who you left down in that Vault, who you’re trying to find. I’ve known you ever since you first opened your eyes to the Commonwealth._  
_Your son is in the Institute, on his deathbed. Our supporters inside have told us all about it. Go see him. He deserves to know you._  
_I have to go. The Railroad has a lot on its plate now, and they need me more than you do. You’ll be okay. You always are. Don’t try to find me, please. The train had to stop at some point._  
_Maybe someday you’ll understand, and maybe you can even find it in yourself to forgive me._  
_~~Love~~_  
_Yours._  
_Deacon”_

 

Fuck. Fuck him, and fuck Washington for being such a moron.

 _Impenetrable inside and out_ , Washington thinks. He was too close, too involved for something bad to not happen. He folds the note and puts it in his breast pocket, taking it to heart.

 _Good men don’t get the suits_ , Washington thinks, and thanks God he isn't a good man.

The road stretches out before him, leading away from Sanctuary and Deacon and all of Washington’s other mistakes. He lied, before, about preferring the cold, but when it’s all you feel, you start to get used to it.

Washington drops the pistol named Deek over the side of a bridge, watches it splash into the murky, irradiated water below.

 _I don’t love you_ , he tells himself, his blackened, frozen heart.

The click sounds again, that same old something in its rightful place. It feels like coming home.

 

\- - -

 

It’s above Boston, in a frothing sky, that the moon and sun finally make their peace. The cycle spins on, forever turning over and over, the constant chase of cat and mouse, of rise and fall and birth and rebirth.

The sun dances over the water, the moon hits the waves at just the right angle, and glittering specks float up and up and up. It means nothing anymore, not to the only one who matters, and his wide eyes stare over the endless ocean, not an ocean.

(“ _I've missed you._ ”)

Maybe it makes more sense now, with his head finally clear. He can breathe, so distanced from every part of himself left on this battered and bruised planet.

The birds call out, again, again, again. He'd never appreciated the silence before.

The waves rise and rise and rise and swallow him up and he closes his eyes and, my God, he's finally-

 

\- - -

 

Murkwater Construction Site is a piece of work. It's in shambles, infested with Mirelurks, and yet, Washington sets about making it his new home. Sanctuary is as far behind him as it can be, the rest of the Commonwealth back with it in his past. It's a new, lonely beginning, but Washington needs only himself, has never needed anyone _but_ himself.

He had, and will have, a lot of time to think, to mull things over. He couldn't give less of a shit about Shaun, not anymore. The no-longer-a-boy wouldn't like the man his father is, wouldn't have even before he was put on ice for over two hundred years. Washington isn't a father figure, and he damn sure isn't somebody to be trusted with a kid, no matter what Nora used to say.

Washington chides himself internally. He's going to stop dwelling on the past. He'll make this someplace just for him. He'd told Cait where he was going by way of a holotape left in her home at Sanctuary, asking her not to follow, to keep his location a secret unless the Commonwealth was in danger of blowing up without him there to stop it. He trusts her to keep quiet and stay away, more so than he trusts anyone else to.

He picks through his bag of things until he finds a hammer, and gets to work.

 

\- - -

 

Days and nights blend into one big slush, a sunrise-sunset sort of story. It's one all your friends know, one you wish you didn't. The dying embers of your last hope lick at your heart, trying so hard to restart the fire that it's almost laughable.

(“ _You're my best friend_.”)

One night the sun sets, and it doesn't come back up.

 

\- - -

 

Washington hears people approaching from a long way off. He doesn't pay it much attention, knowing people sometimes pass on their way out of the Commonwealth. Sure, these people are moving a little faster than most, but he figures that they'll move past like every group always does. He pulls out his cigarettes and lights one, taking a drag and holding it in until the space in his chest doesn't feel so cold.

“Shit!” he hears in the distance, the sound of leaves crunching under feet growing closer and closer.

“Is that a settlement?” Washington hears, followed by, “Yeah, it is! Head for the settlement!”

Washington sighs, getting to his feet and heading for the only door he left to the outside world, a heavy-duty metal door the likes of which you'd find on a small town fallout shelter. He opens up the sliding peephole and waits.

The group comes into view after a long moment, and Washington wants to slam the slot closed and leave them in the hands of the Commonwealth when he finally sees who leads the group.

“Please! Can you help-” the man pauses, freezing in his tracks, “-us,” he finishes lamely, and Washington can see him swallow. His obvious surprise makes the cruelest parts of Washington vibrate, pleased at being able to throw him off even after their time spent apart.

“Wanna explain why I should help?” Washington asks, voice rusty from disuse.

“Washington, the Boogeyman is tailing us. I’m transporting, ah, cargo, and I would really appreciate it if you would let us in,” the man says.

Washington frowns, playing dumb. “Boogeyman? Cargo? I don’t need whatever you’re selling, thanks.”

A dark expression passes over the agent’s face, and he rips off his too-familiar sunglasses, revealing to Washington the eyes he’d never gotten to see in the whole time they’d been together. “Even you wouldn’t leave these people out here to die or be carted off back to the Institute. I know you better than that.”

Washington smiles cruelly. “We’ve been apart longer than we were ever together. You don’t know _shit_ about me. I’ll let you in, but don’t think it’s because I care whether or not any of you die. Hopefully after I let you in somebody will get pissed and I’ll finally get some action around here.”

The peephole slides closed, and the door’s locks rattle as Washington takes his time undoing them. The door swings open, and he gestures with a broad sweep of his arm, herding the synths and HIM inside. They enter and proceed to stand around awkwardly in the open yard.

“Sit, or something,” Washington says. “You’ll be here awhile, so you may as well try to get comfortable.” He turns to their leader as the sound of movement breaks out across the compound. “You, asshole, you come with me.”

Washington leads the way into the main building, his house, and shuts the door behind them. He lets out a long breath, fingers clenching into tight fists at his side before he turns to-

Deacon. God, the sight of him makes Washington ache, and he curses himself for being such a fucking idiot. He should’ve left them to rot.

“Been a long time,” Deacon says, his sunglasses still held in his hand instead of over his eyes.

Washington stares at him in steely indifference for long enough that Deacon starts to get uncomfortable, and then Washington punches him in the face.

“Fuck you,” Washington spits down at Deacon, who went sprawling after the fist connected with his face. “You goddamned, miserable, fucking bastard!”

Deacon groans from the floor, sitting up awkwardly and holding his nose. “I think you broke my nose, asshole,” he says, muffled.

“I didn’t,” Washington says, rolling his eyes. “Trust me, you would know if your nose was broken. You’ll have a gnarly bruise and you’ll bleed for a bit, but you’ll be right as rain in no time, you prick.” He puts a hand out to help Deacon to his feet, and goes to get him a rag once the man is standing.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve getting decked,” Deacon complains while accepting the rag and putting it up to staunch the bleeding.

Washington pushes Deacon into a chair and grabs a chipped cup, crossing over to the spout in the wall and pouring him some water, setting it on the table next to him. He pulls up another chair and watches Deacon try to stop the flow of blood.

“You know, I thought the wasteland would be a good fit for me,” Washington says after a few minutes, apropos of nothing.

Deacon raises an eyebrow, still holding the rag to his nose. “Isn’t it? You get to kill as many things as you want.”

“It wasn’t as fun without someone at my side,” Washington admits. He hates being open about his feelings, but he figures this is the last time he’ll ever see Deacon, so he needs to try and tell the Railroad agent as much as he can.

Deacon blinks at him, something odd settling over his expression. “You missed me, you mean,” he says, going for lighthearted but falling somewhere in no man’s land.

“Yeah, I've missed you,” Washington agrees, looking away from Deacon’s widening eyes. “I didn’t realize how comforting it was to have somebody around who understood my kind of crazy until I was suddenly alone.”

“The Railroad really did need me, I hope you know that,” Deacon rushes the words out like he thinks Washington will stop him from saying them. “There was a situation and we needed all hands on deck but I couldn’t ask you for help, I couldn’t.”

“Why not? You knew I would help,” Washington says, looking down at his scarred hands, now.

There’s a prolonged quiet in which Deacon’s nose stops bleeding and Washington goes to refill his water, but finally Deacon says, “I did know you would help. We had an issue with a major safehouse and needed to get as many synths to safety as possible. It all went up in flames and I knew I’d have to make sacrifices to get these people to someplace where they could begin again. We picked the Capitol Wasteland.”

Washington narrows his eyes. “D.C.? Why there?”

“Project Purity, b- Washington,” Deacon explains, taking a long drink from his water as he gathers his thoughts. “Nobody expects synths to be coming in with the other settlers looking for clean water.”

The agent looks at Washington seriously, something pained in his eyes, and Washington almost doesn’t want to hear the next words from his mouth.

“It killed me to leave, especially after you told me all that stuff when you were drunk, but I had to go. I’ve been spending these last few months going back and forth between the Commonwealth and the Capitol.” He reaches over and grabs Washington’s hand, squeezing tight like he’s trying to emphasize his point. “I didn’t want to go. I never wanted to go.”

Washington meets his eyes, feels the heat from his hand, and he is weak. Fuck. Even after all this time, Deacon still holds power over him like no other. Washington would even believe Deacon’s most heinous lies if it meant all the man’s attention was on him for longer.

They aren’t sure who moves first, but the distance between them closes until their lips touch, electricity sparking between their mouths. They kiss slow, learning the feel of one another and tasting each other. Washington puts a hand to the bruised side of Deacon’s face, traces his fingers over the mark he created.

Deacon kisses like he’s never wanted anything more, like this is what he lives for, and it’s so genuine it almost feels more fake than anything else. Washington’s little, broken heart swells in the cavity of his chest and he wants to cry at the sense of regret he feels at kissing Deacon. He’ll never feel more remorse over anything he’s ever done.

He pulls away, putting his hand to his lips like he can wipe away what he’s done. Deacon makes a noise, one of his hands resting on Washington’s knee.

“Boss, whatever is going through your head right now, stop thinking it. Just, for once, don't overthink everything,” Deacon says, nudging at Washington's jaw with his nose to encourage him.

Washington kisses Deacon again, unable to stop himself, hating his lack of self restraint. He’s waited too fucking long for this to end it prematurely. His hand slides around to the back of Deacon’s head and he pulls him in closer, needing him to be so near they become one. Deacon’s lips are deceptively soft, and Washington wishes he could kiss him until the rest of the world leaves them alone.

“Fuck you,” Washington whispers into the scant space between their mouths.

He feels Deacon’s lips pull up into a smile. “Maybe if you ask nicely,” he quips.

Washington thinks of Deacon’s eyes on the blood dripping from Washington’s hands. He thinks of wanting to bend Deacon over at the site of a raider massacre. He thinks of Deacon’s fingers curled in his hair on that last night all those months ago. Maybe it’s not love, maybe Washington is incapable of feeling something such as love anymore, but with Deacon giving himself over willingly, pupils blown wide and spelling out his desire, Washington can almost convince himself this is worth it.

The sole survivor from Vault 111 pulls the Railroad agent to his feet, and leads the way to the biggest bedroom. (He’d never wanted company, but he’d planned ahead for any circumstance.) Any thoughts of the Institute, of the courtyard full of synths, are pushed far away from their minds.

They make it halfway down the hall before Washington can’t stand the distance and pushes Deacon up against the wall. He isn’t kind about it, practically slamming him into the wall and reclaiming his mouth. Washington presses his fingertips into the blooming bruise on Deacons face just to hear the gasp, to feel teeth bite at his bottom lip in retaliation. There isn’t room for kind in their world.

Deacon is the one who pulls away this time, dragging Washington to the room he’d correctly assumed was their destination and backing the man up until he sits on the edge of the bed. Washington pulls his old partner down with him, Deacon’s legs on either side of his, and angles up to kiss him again. God, he loves the feeling of Deacon’s mouth on his.

They kiss a while longer, still not rushed, still exploratory and filled with all the words they never said. Even after all this time, Deacon is still Washington’s favorite person in the entire goddamn Commonwealth, and the way they fit together so seamlessly is part of the reason why. They communicate without even speaking, so tuned to each other that words are redundant, and Washington misses this easy familiarity, even in this new territory, so much that it hurts him.

“Fuck me,” Deacon says, “God, just, please fuck me.”

“You’re leaving soon,” Washington says, his voice sounding weird and thick to his ears.

Deacon’s eyes soften, and Washington hates the sadness there. “I know. I have to leave, but that doesn’t mean I have to stay away forever.”

“What’s keeping you from never coming back?” Washington says.

“You,” Deacon answers. “I’ll always come back to you.”

Washington shakes his head. “You shouldn’t. I’m volatile. I’m only happy when I’m covered in someone else’s blood and would just as soon beat the shit out of you as kiss you.”

“I don’t think that’s the real you,” Deacon says. “If I’m honest, I think we’ve both been dishonest.”

“I’ll hurt you,” Washington warns, “Even when I don’t mean to, I’ll end up hurting you.”

Deacon can feel him giving in, puts his own fingers to the place where Washington punched him. “I’ve never seen a love that didn’t hurt, sometimes.”

“Love?” Washington asks. “You love me?”

Deacon looks away, seeming embarrassed. “I mean, of course I do. Isn’t it obvious?”

Washington gently turns Deacon’s head back to look into his eyes. He searches Deacon’s face like he’s looking for some sign of treachery. “You love me. Deek, why…” he trails off, stroking his thumb over Deacon’s cheekbone absently. “Why would you love me? All I’m able to do is harm.”

“You aren’t as evil as you think, boss,” Deacon says. “So many synths have been saved because of your work with the Railroad. You’ve done so much good, even if you sometimes do bad.”

Washington thinks of the war, of the careful division of self he’d had to perform in order to be able to look at himself in the mirror. War itself never changes, but those who fight those wars, they always come back different people than when they left. He’s done bad, he’s done far more bad than Deacon could possibly know about, all in the name of good. What he’s realized is that good and evil are relative, that depending on which side you’re on, your view of things drastically changes.

No matter where he looks, Washington knows he’ll see that Deacon was an inevitability.

Washington puts his hand on the back of Deacon’s neck, trying to center himself, and Deacon pushes him until they’re horizontal. They’re inextricably wrapped up in each other, their limbs twisted together, their thoughts so occupied by one another.

“I’d walk to the ends of the earth with you,” Washington says, as close to a confession of love as he can get. Deacon understands, of course he does, and tugs at the hem of Washington’s shirt, wanting to lay them as bare in skin as honesty has laid bare their hearts.

Washington wishes he’d still been sitting up, but he worms his way out of his shirt and lets Deacon’s fingers dance over his skin, his scars. Deacon stutters over the biggest scar, the one running across Washington’s lower belly from left of his navel to his right hip. He traces the length of it, and gives Washington a questioning look.

“Turns out that, outside of the power armor, humans are pretty squishy,” he goes for joking, but his voice wobbles and he curses himself. He thinks of when he got that scar, of the _searing_ pain, the feeling of his insides outside, the fear he'd felt, thinking he would die due to a stupid mistake.

Deacon presses his lips to the midpoint of the long scar, so infinitely gentle it makes Washington angry because after all he's done, he doesn't fucking deserve someone kissing his wounds and being so goddamn tender. He hauls Deacon up to kiss him, biting at his lips and hoping he gets the message that the time for sweetness is over.

Washington pulls Deacon's shirt off, immediately setting to work on getting their pants undone once that's out of the way. Deacon is doing his damnedest to distract Washington from his task, but he's a good multitasker, able to make Deacon gasp into his mouth while he's pulling his pants down around his thighs.

Washington shoves a hand into Deacon’s pants, cupping his semi-hard cock through his underwear. He plants kisses along Deacon’s jaw as he massages at his cock, working it to full hardness before tucking Deacon’s underwear under his balls and finally getting a good look at his dick.

Oh, he has a gorgeous cock: a good length but it’s the thickness that has Washington salivating. He’s not exactly surprised to find out that he wants to blow Deacon, but God, he never thought he’d want to get on his knees and have Deacon fuck his throat until he gags and chokes on it. He nearly groans at the mental image, recalling the feeling of a cock down his throat, the satisfaction of knowing his partner was satisfied.

“Can I suck your dick?” Washington asks, finding himself unable to stop thinking of it once the idea had occurred to him.

Deacon’s cock twitches as he gives a resounding yes, and Washington feels a bone deep pleasure as he maneuvers out from under Deacon to get to his knees. Deacon stands with the backs of his knees nearly touching the edge of the mattress, and seems uncertain as to the proper procedure.

Washington takes one of Deacon’s hand and puts it in his own hair, looking up at the agent through his eyelashes. “Fuck my throat, please,” he says, guessing that Deacon would be into the whole subservient, coquettish thing. If the tightening of Deacon’s fingers in his hair is any indication, Washington would say he was right on the money.

Deacon takes his cock in his free hand, and puts the tip at Washington’s lips, waiting for Washington to eagerly open his mouth before pushing just the head in. Washington tongues at the slit of Deacon’s cock, taking it upon himself to hold his own hands behind his back and let Deacon control the pace.

Slowly, achingly slowly for Washington, Deacon pushes in and in and in, holding Washington’s head in place with a one handed grip on his hair while his other hand strokes the side of Washington’s face. His cock hits the back of Washington’s throat, then further, and it feels like care, Deacon taking his time, but Washington wants to be choked, not loved.

Finally getting fed up with the snail’s pace, Washington shoves his head forward until his chin is pressed hard into the zipper of Deacon’s jeans.

“Shit, boss,” Deacon says, the fingers in Washington’s hair tightening spasmodically. He holds Washington where he is, breathing in through his nose and fighting against his screaming instincts. Damn, Washington had missed this, the heavy weight on his tongue and down his throat, the only situation in which his helplessness feels good.

Deacon pulls back out, almost as slow as he’d pushed in, and Washington is about to just hold Deacon down while he sets his own tempo, when Deacon snaps his hips forward, driving his dick down Washington’s throat in a way that has him moaning and struggling with his gag reflex. Blessedly, Deacon finally takes it upon himself to facefuck Washington in earnest, keeping the Vaultie immobile while he seeks his own pleasure.

This is what Washington remembers, this is what he’d wanted. It’s hard to breathe, his mind blank with the effort of focusing on keeping himself open and pliant, letting Deacon take what he wants.

“Fuck, shit,” Deacon says, “Washington, holy shit. Your mouth. You’re a goddamn beautiful bastard.”

Washington hums, and Deacon curses again, his efforts redoubling. His hips start to stutter, his fingers curl tighter, tighter in Washington’s hair. He pulls back, a string of saliva connecting Washington’s mouth to Deacon’s twitching cock.

“I’m gonna come,” Deacon says, his fingers still flexing in Washington’s hair. “Felt a little wrong to not ask you first.”

Washington places a kiss on the very tip of Deacon’s dick, and Deacon shudders. “If you won’t come down my throat, come on my face.”

“Oh my god,” Deacon says, and Washington releases his hands from behind his back and reaches up to jerk Deacon off. He shakes, biting his lip harder as he gets closer to the edge.

“Deek,” Washington says, something approaching affection in his voice. “You’ve been such a good boy,” Deacon groans at the words, his cock pulsing in Washington’s hand. “Come on me, Deek. It’s okay.”

It takes one more pull and Deacon is coming, whining as ropes of his seed paint Washington’s face. Washington strokes him through it, pushing him back to sit on the bed when his legs shake under him. Washington swipes a finger through the come on his cheek, tasting Deacon and thinking.

Does he want to fuck Deacon? His dick certainly does, but Washington knows Deacon must be sensitive right now, and if he’s never been fucked before Washington isn’t sure if it’s a good idea to start today, when he would rather have fast and rough than slow and careful. Washington isn’t sure, isn’t quite sure of anything at the moment.

Deacon cards his fingers through Washington’s thick hair, bringing him out of his thoughts. He looks up at Deacon. The man is looking back, soft and sticky sweet, and it’s too much for Washington while come is drying on his face.

“Thanks?” Deacon says. “I don’t really know the proper etiquette for the whole, uh, post-blowjob weirdness.”

Washington tries to smile convincingly, but Deacon’s face tells him he’s failed. Washington stands, feeling awkward and not as turned on as he was a minute ago. He goes to the closest thing to a bathroom he has and wipes his face off, staring at himself for a short moment in the mirror. He zips up his pants and the sound feels dirty, like it's something to be ashamed of.

Deacon has a strange expression on his face when Washington comes back, almost hurt but not quite indignant. “What’s wrong?” he asks, but he doesn’t ask, he’s obviously not asking.

“I don’t love you,” Washington blurts, swallowing hard once the words are out like he can take them back. His voice is still growly from Deacon’s cock down his throat, but the _look_ Deacon gave him, like he thought Washington was something amazing, that was what he couldn’t stand. “I can’t love you, I mean. It’s not- I don’t feel things like that. I can’t anymore. After the War…” he trails off, thinking of Nora, the only one who’d understood, who hadn’t expected anything from him but what he could give.

“You said you would walk to the ends of the earth with me,” Deacon says. “If that isn’t love, I don’t know-”

“I’ll tell you what love is,” Washington interrupts. “Love is endless self-sacrifice. It is killing yourself day in and day out and giving everything you have to the one you love. It’s soft and cruel and devoted and you would destroy the entire world just for another day with them.” He lets out a shaky breath, pushing his fingers through his hair. “You’ve got no clue what it’s like to love someone, and then one day look at them and realize you just can’t feel anything at all, not a single goddamn thing except this anger you just can’t shake.”

Deacon stares at him, something cold and calculating in his eyes. Washington doesn’t feel interested in sex at all at this point, and he puts a hand to that deepest scar across his belly. “I know what it’s like to lose someone I loved,” he says eventually.

Washington swallows, looks at the floor. “The feeling itself is gone, Deacon. I’m sorry, I’m just not able to love you, no matter how much I-” he cuts himself off. Deacon has to go, has to transport synths to their new homes and save the ones back home. He has better things to spend his time on than some traumatized war vet just woken up from a two hundred year nap.

“How much you what?” Deacon presses, and there's something hopeful in his eyes, something that Washington hates to crush.

“I think you should leave,” Washington says, barely able to get the words out.

Deacon's eyes widen, then his face closes off and he stands without preamble. “So that's how this is going to be.”

Washington looks away from him, crosses to the window and stares out over Murkwater. He hears the soft rustling of Deacon getting dressed, tries to pretend he isn't hurting himself.

Finally, softly, “Washington.”

Of course, like a compass pointing north, Washington turns to Deacon without hesitation. He's standing close, closer than Washington expected, and his naked eyes rove over Washington like he's trying to commit him to memory. Like he thinks this is the last time they'll see each other.

Without words, he steps close, and kisses Washington, managing to put all his love and all his sadness into it, and Washington kisses back, wishing he could stay like this forever. He wishes their circumstances would allow it.

Deacon, when he speaks again, doesn't go far, staying close enough that they share breath. “I can wait, boss. I can wait a long, long time. Waiting's one of my specialty's, really. Just you wait, I'll out-wait you.”

“Is there a point-” Washington starts, but Deacon cuts him off by kissing him again, and Washington can't even find it in himself to be mad.

“The _point_ is,” Deacon says _pointedly_. “The point is that, when you can finally let yourself love me, when you can finally get rid of that one-ton chip on your shoulder, I'll be waiting.”

Washington kisses him, this time, quick like he's afraid he'll get rejected. “What if that day never comes? What if the war broke me permanently?”

Deacon smiles slyly, always keeping hold of everyone's secrets, and always protecting them. “I don't need you to love me, as long as you let me help you save the Commonwealth and get part of the glory.”

“Saving the Commonwealth?” Washington says, but Deacon just kisses him again, lingering and reluctant to pull away.

He backs away, still smiling that secret smile. “Come on. Guy like you, place like this, friends like us? Ever since you woke up from your nap, you've had a finger in every one of the Commonwealth's pies. Great allies, great enemies. You're tied to this place like only the other Pre-War relics are, and that makes you numero uno on everyone's list.”

“What lists? Are people out to get me?” Washington asks, mentally checking that he knows where all his weapons are hidden away in the house.

Deacon winks. “Can't give away all my secrets, can I? If mystery's what it takes to keep you coming back, then I can be one mysterious motherfucker. Hopefully next time you won't punch me in the face.” He leaves after that, and Washington doesn't go after him, instead turning to the window.

The Railroad agent rounds up his synths, confident that the immediate Institute threat is passed, and herds them outside of Murkwater. Before he closes the heavy door behind them, he looks right into Washington's window. He smiles, and the door cuts them off from each other.

It leaves Washington feeling bereft, but he finds himself smiling, too, assured that his companion – his _partner –_ won't stay away for long. Not this time.

 

\- - -

 

The sun rises, gold spilling over the hills and turning the early morning mists orange. Is the night over? Is the sky, eventually turning pale blue, ready to be written over, marked out, scraped clean and spit up? The denizens of the new world, this Brave New World, are ready.

Thunder sounds over the Commonwealth, and they echo it with their cries, as if they'd just been waiting for their signal to _become_.

The Commonwealth breathes, and its heartbeat matches the drumming of those who dwell within. They are, all of them, finally at the start.

 

\- - -

 

Deacon returns in record time, grinning ear to ear at Washington, waiting for him in Murkwater's courtyard.

Washington smiles back. “Ready to begin?”

Deacon doesn't reply. Washington doesn't ask questions he doesn't know the answer to, not the Washington he knows.

The metal door opens, and Washington steps through into the glistening day.

As always, Deacon follows.

 

**Author's Note:**

> it is never explicitly stated, but as i was writing i thought of Washington as probably having PTSD added on top of anger management issues? he was taken prisoner during the War and tortured so i think his inability/unwillingness to love is partially attributed to that and his survivor's guilt. he kind of adopted this hyperviolent persona (Washington) once he woke up and he kind of became it along the way. idk.
> 
> hmu on tumblr @aramente if u wanna let me know about any glaring problems or if u just wanna chat
> 
> thanks for reading!


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